Psych! Gotcha
by Kazuki Landen
Summary: Or, 'Don't leave things too late'. Carlton does something he might never be able to apologise for; Shawn gets out of his depth, and Gus is entirely absent. Shawn whumpage and a fairly guilty Lassie. Minor bad language. Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

Pay close attention, people. The tenses give the timeline / point of view – they're inconsistent for a reason. It's a little complicated, now I've read it through a few times. Sorry!

Well done to Laura, who got it nearly right.

I wish I owned Psych, then I'd be happy. Sadly, I don't own it and so I'm not happy. This means I take out my whump urges in fan fiction. You've been warned.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _

I've seen Shawn Spencer happy, excited, scared – although then I usually only see the back of him – angry, and occasionally sappy.

But I've never seen him looking quite like he does right now.

He's scared, I can see that, but there's shock dulling the light in those emotional eyes, and anger bringing a different sort of spark to them.

Then, I can see the red mark on his cheek where I hit him.

He's on the floor in front of me, on his knees but leaning back on one hand, looking up at me with those damnable eyes, seeing right through me as though he really is a psychic.

His free hand rises up to gently touch the mark, and his eyes close briefly as the fingers make contact, then spring open again. "You hit me. Wow, Lassie…" He's disbelieving; hey, I can hardly believe it myself, and it's my fist that's hurting.

There's a noise behind me, the door slams open, and Chief Vick's strident tones ripple across the room. "Detective! What on Earth do you think you're doing?"

I can't answer her. To be honest, there isn't an answer – I hadn't actually been _thinking_ anything.

Spencer's on his feet though, springing up in some faint imitation of his usual self. "Hi, Chief. Sorry about that – you know how these visions can get. Lassy just snapped me out of a bad one." He laughs, and rubs his cheek. No flinching now; he's prepared for the pain that touching the mark brings. "The husband did it, by the way."

"But – what?" The Chief's about to ask more questions, then her expression goes thoughtful and she snaps her mouth shut. "The husband? But he had an alibi."

Shawn snorts. "They know each other through poker games." He holds one hand to his head in that stupid 'something's coming to me' impression we all know and detest. "He decided to exchange some of the cash he won for a solid alibi."

"Really… Excuse me, gentlemen. Detective, my office in ten minutes." She's out of the room and breezing down the corridor before Spencer or I can speak again.

"Dude, I totally saved your ass." And it's back! That damned smug look that he's had half the day, the grin and those dancing, amused eyes.

Before I know it, I'm pushing him up against the wall. The thud echoing around the room and Spencer's gasp gives away quite how hard I shoved him. Maybe he's winded, maybe just shocked again, I don't know. My hands are curled in his jacket, and he's practically on tiptoes as I hold him up. Maybe he's having trouble breathing – the way I'm holding his jacket forces my hands against his throat. Whatever it is, his breath is coming in quick little gasps that sound like a precursor to hyperventilating.

For the first time, he's looking down on me – without standing on a desk, that is – and he's scared. Boy, is he scared. That mark on his cheekbone, livid now against pale skin, stands out accusingly. He looks all of twelve years old, his eyes wide and fixed on my face, his hands sporadically grabbing at my jacket and letting go.

He actually has no idea what I'm going to do. To be honest, neither do I.

With a growl, I let him stand back on firm ground, moving back out of his personal space and snatching my hands away from his jacket with a disgusted snort.

I turn away, and when I look back his eyes are closed, and he's leaning against the wall like it's the only thing keeping him upright. Looking at the paleness of his skin, I think it might be.

It's all I can do to stop myself from apologising, but I bite my tongue as I stalk from the room. A rustle of clothing and a faint thud tells me that Spencer's back on the floor again.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

I think Spencer's avoiding me.

I've not seen him once since yesterday, but I've shamelessly abused my rights as head detective and found out that he was in earlier, put a solved file on Vick's desk and left, with no one noticing.

Possibly it's the first time he's come in here without bouncing off the walls – I'd consider it a success if I wasn't feeling so damn guilty.

The Chief had words with me about hitting Spencer – I think I got away with it, as she didn't see anything and Spencer doesn't seem to want to press charges. She's not spoken to him, but the fact he didn't run straight to her would suggest I'm in the clear.

Talking of the Chief – she's just come out of her office, shouting something about a double murder at the beach, gun fire, getting everyone mobilised and to the scene.

I'm the third, maybe fourth person out the door, O'Hara behind me as we sprint to my car. We take second place in the convoy of vehicles, our sirens screaming and lights flashing.

Two ambulances join us about two minutes in, near the back of our little group. I can see them in the mirror, standing higher than the cruisers they're following.

I'm getting a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I recognise the road we're driving down. Spencer's office is just along this stretch, and God knows what he's mixed up in.

As the patrol car in front slows, I slam on the brakes. I can't afford distractions like Shawn Spencer now – I need to focus on this damn case.

I tell myself once, twice and a third time, _'It's not Spencer.'_ Of course it's not him, and the other body isn't Gus. They wouldn't be so stupid as to get murdered. Gus wouldn't let it happen.

Still, I'm hurrying more than I usually would as I get to the beach, one hand on my holster just in case the perp's still around, and as I see the bodies laid out next to one another in a gruesome parody of sunbathers, my knees go weak.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

"Dude, I have no idea. All I know is, he growled something about smugness then I was on the floor."

His feet on the desk, Shawn held the phone in the crook of his neck as he flipped TV channels and scooped up a bite of the pineapple upside down cake sat on his lap. Who says men can't multi-task?

"I know! I mean, seriously, who's he kidding? He's just jealous we solved it before him. Wait, hang on a sec."

Part of the pineapple cake had slipped from the fork, and Shawn used both hands to scoop it off his shirt and tip it into his mouth.

"Ok, I'm back. Ooh, wait a second…" He stood up, looking out the window. "Gotta go, man, stuff's happening."

"_Shawn? Shawn, what's happening? Shawn?"_

"Bring me a smoothie later?"

Without waiting for an answer, he dropped the phone back onto the hook before grabbing his cell phone and jacket and heading out the door, abandoning the cake half-eaten on the desk.

When a guy walks past your window with a gun to someone's back, it's no time to be hanging around.


	2. Chapter 2

Less than 2 percent (1.57 percent, to be exact) of readers reviewed my first chapter. I'm bummed.

Do not fret, readers. If you need reassurance, the last line of the author notes at the end of this chapter should help you.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _

Shawn stepped nonchalantly out of the office, clicking the door shut behind him and locking it one-handed, not taking his eyes off the two men heading down the sidewalk.

His cell phone, switched to silent mode now, buzzed in his pocket as Gus tried again and again to call him. Ignoring it, Shawn crept along about twenty metres behind the couple, thankful for the lack of light in the dusk, treading on the balls of his feet just as he'd had drilled into him for years.

Voices drifted back to him, "Why are you… your father… I never…"

"… years… my _life_…"

Shawn was momentarily confused as he reached an open space with no sign of the pair, then the voices caught his attention again and he swung towards the beach.

In the cooling evening, the only people around were at the far end of the beach, a group of maybe fifteen, playing loud music. Shawn would never be able to get help from them before it was too late.

Pulling his cell from his pocket – the gunman was getting angrier now, pushing at his victim with the gun, and the psychic decided that police backup would be a good idea.

Dialling 911, he spoke to the operator in a whisper; the gunman hadn't seen him yet and he had no wish to draw his attention. "My name's Shawn Spencer, I'm the Santa Barbara PD's head psychic, and I'm following a man with a gun." Bet she didn't hear that every day. Mind you, he'd called often enough.

Shawn gave her the place, and as she told him to stay well back and inside, he cut her off. "Uh-huh. Yeah, look, I gotta go, something's gonna happen. Bad vibes." He shoved the cell in his jacket pocket with the line still open; he figured it could only help. The squeaking voice was muffled now, and he was concentrating on the pair again.

They were face to face now, the gun clearly held between them pointing at the shorter man's chest. They were shouting; Shawn didn't need the psychic abilities he professed to having to realise there wasn't much time left.

No choice, then. "Hey, guys! How you doing?" He started to jog towards them, grinning playfully, and then froze as the gun suddenly swung round to aim at him. The gunman took a few rapid steps backward, keeping away from the two of them.

"Back off, kid."

Kid? Ok, that was unfair.

"I'm not here to cause any trouble. My name's Shawn Spencer, I'm head psychic at the Santa Barbara Police Department. Just give me the gun, and you can leave, and we'll all be fine." He had his hands up in a placating gesture, as he slowly walked towards the gunman.

Shawn could feel the sand spilling into his shoes; he trod carefully, aware of every shift beneath his feet as he tried not to make any sudden moves.

"What's going on? What's your name?" Keep him talking, distract him, maybe he'll give you the gun, maybe you can take it by force. A name would be good. Shawn could work with that.

"I'm not giving you the damn gun," he snarled.

The other man, older than Shawn by at least a decade, shook his head. "He's Kevin. I'm Paul. He thinks I killed his dad. I didn't, it was an accident, he just fell-"

Kevin was angry now, his face going red. "Liar! You pushed him and now he's dead!"

"Ok, Kevin." Shawn pulled his attention from the other man. "See, that's better already." He was close now, almost within leaping distance, at least if it hadn't been for the shifting ground beneath his feet.

Shawn closed his eyes for a brief second, running what he could see of the man through his mind. "You're a builder, right?" He glanced at Paul, then back to Kevin. "Both of you are. Your dad was too. And your brothers are, but they're younger than you. They look up to you, like you looked up to your dad."

Kevin was shocked now, but he resettled his grip on the gun. "Yeah, so what? I looked up to him, and this _bastard_ killed him."

Shawn spoke faster, trying to get the words out before the man started firing.

"How would you feel if your father had killed someone, Kevin? Would you still look up to him? How would your brothers feel if they knew you had killed someone?"

"They'd be proud I killed the murderous bastard!" His mind made up, Kevin pulled the trigger once, twice and again, then a fourth time.

There was a shout of pain behind him, and then silence as the pain roared through him, blocking out the world. He should never have tried to reach the gun, he should never have left the office, he should never have pissed off Lassy, maybe then the police would have been quicker and his chest wouldn't be on fire now and the world wouldn't be going dark…

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

One body. A gun. Second body.

Don't look at the second body.

Too late.

Paramedics are pushing me aside, and I feel my legs collapse. A puff of sand rises around me as I sit down, hard.

There's a sob, almost a shriek, from O'Hara as she sees what I did only seconds before. "_No!_" She's beside me now, grabbing blindly for my hand as I put my head between my knees for a moment before collecting the strength to stand.

I look at her face; she's already crying. Then I can't see her anymore as Buzz pulls her into his arms, holding her tight.

He's a good man. He'll be a good detective.

A sudden shout from one of the paramedics – "He's alive! Get that stretcher here, now!"

Which one? There're so many people crowding round, I can't tell who it is.

Please, please God. I don't believe in God, but I'm still praying as I stagger towards the group. O'Hara's right behind me, Buzz alongside her. He's steadying her; I'm glad he's doing that because I'm not sure I'm going to be able to stand up myself if…

The paramedics are around Shawn's body, the officers – at least, those few that aren't staring at him in shock – are crowded around the other one. That's good. It means he's alive. For now.

Psychic, my ass. He should have seen this coming. Why the _hell_ didn't he see this coming?

Where's Guster? The other body isn't his; surely he'd never let Shawn go after an armed man on his own.

Wait, he's at a conference. Shawn was whinging about it a couple of days ago. He's not here.

Shawn can't die, because I refuse to tell Guster I failed him.

They're carrying him past us now – can't use the wheels on the beach. He's pale, bloody and if they weren't in such a damn rush I'd say he was dead. O'Hara's eyes are so wide as she looks at him, and her cheeks are so pale, I'm once again glad that Buzz is holding her up.

Somehow, the Chief's holding it together. That's why they pay her the big bucks. "Detective Lassiter, supervise the scene. O'Hara, get statements from the group down that way. See if they saw anything."

I can feel myself nodding. I'm not sure if I mean to though, it just seems like the appropriate thing to do.

"Go!" She shoves me along with a palm on my back. I stumble, then look back in despair. What do I do? This is Spencer, damnit, the stupid, cowardly, faking son of a cop who annoys me every single day, the arrogant man I hit and scared and who I never got to apologise to, and without whom, the world would never be as bright, and the darkness that's settled over the beach will never, ever lift.

She sees something of that in my eyes, I'm sure. Her face softens, and I see quite how hard she has to try to keep herself calm. "Go, Carlton. He's one of ours. The least we can do is find the person who did this."

I'll get the bastard, if it's the last thing I do.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _

Author's note – No character deaths, at least in this fic (I can't bring myself to do it).


	3. Chapter 3

LOVE to my reviewers. Particularly to Sushi Chi, who reviewed both chapters and was lovely (ego boost!), and to Keyanna, who made the maths seem much better :) and was also lovely.

Guilt trip by maths. Dude. Thank you so much for the reviews. Stats are much improved :)

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _

We've got him in custody now. He's sat in a cell with three drunks, all of whom are in pretty sorry states. It's no less than he deserves, but I wish I could get away with beating the crap out of him. The chief has someone posted on his door – someone who's never met Spencer – to keep us away from him.

Probably a good idea.

We found him less than ten minutes after we got to the beach. He was hiding further down the street – Spencer's blood all over his arms and chest gave him away. It's his fingerprints on the gun, too.

The blood wasn't there from trying to help Shawn – he'd shot him at such close quarters that he'd been covered in back spatter as the bullet… well, I'm trying not to think about it. I'm not squeamish, but it's not nice.

He's in hospital now, still in surgery.

Henry's waiting there now. The chief rang him earlier; she shut the blinds and came out ten minutes later with red eyes. No one commented – I wouldn't vouch for their safety if they had.

As soon as we've done the paperwork, O'Hara and I are off to visit him. I have a feeling that McNab's gonna be joining us. He's got a major soft spot for Spencer, even though he's younger than him. Seriously, it's like Spencer's a kid. Maybe a puppy. And someone's kicked him.

Hell, not so long ago I punched him. God only knows what they'd do to me if they knew that. Before all this, I might have gotten a little trouble from O'Hara – now, if they find out, I'll get lynched. In a police station. By the damn police.

I'd probably cuff myself so they could do it, too.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

My son is in surgery, possibly bleeding to death as I sit here on this stupid, solid hospital chair. I swear they haven't changed them since I was here for Madeleine's pregnancy. The only difference now is that my back's a hell of a lot worse.

Every time a nurse walks in, I'm standing up at a speed that makes my back twinge even though it doesn't satisfy my desperation for knowledge.

I've ended up pacing the hallway, which is making my back feel a little better but I'm terrified about switching into autopilot, then ending up in the bowels of the hospital and not being able to find my way back if the nurses need to find me and Shawn dying without someone that loves him by his side.

I've known too many good men – and women – crippled, even killed, by gunshots, to try and look on the bright side. I can't believe that even without being a cop, Shawn's managed to take on the dangers involved in it. Maybe if he _had_ been a cop, he would have had back up, and a gun, both of which could have stopped this from happening.

Then I wouldn't be waiting here, my legs aching from the constant movement, and I wouldn't be shaking as a tiny nurse calls for me with a chart in her hands.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

The three of us enter the waiting room just in time to see Henry Spencer turn a terrifying shade of white and sway on his feet. I'm ready to catch him, but after he grabs my arm he seems to steady himself, and waves one hand at me.

"I'm ok, Lassiter."

O'Hara's looking pale again. "What's wrong? Is he…?"

Henry shakes his head. "He's ok. They… he was gone for a few seconds. Heart stopped."

"Oh, my God." She's got one hand covering her mouth, the other reaching out for some support. Buzz is there, again. I'd be worried if I thought it was anything other than friendship and being a gentleman, and if I hadn't met his fiancée.

The nurse is interrupting us now, getting Henry and O'Hara to sit down. And me, for some reason, though I feel fine, just maybe a little wobble in my knees. Maybe shaking hands, but that's because I'm cold. Not like its warm in this state, or anything.

Buzz is hovering anxiously behind the small woman. She reminds me a little of Francine, actually.

It's weird waking up on your back on a hospital floor, with several people hovering over you. Especially when those people include Buzz and Henry, though O'Hara seems to be a hovering sort of a woman.

I'm up so fast I can feel my head spinning again. "What happened?"

I cut the nurse off before she can actually tell me I fainted. Probably a bad burrito. "Never mind. Where's Spencer?"

Buzz is holding my arm now, practically lifting me upright. I'd shake him off, but that was some bad burrito.

"This way, detectives. Mr Spencer."

I can feel my hands warming up now, and they've stopped shaking. Good.

We're heading towards the ICU – I should know, I've had officers in here before, even been in here myself once, though I don't remember the journey either in or out, and most of my stay is a morphine-induced blur.

Hopefully, Spencer will get the same treatment. And hopefully, won't end up like Officer Andrews. Another of my failures, that raid, and someone else paid the price.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

That's my baby boy on the bed. Not a child any more, but still my baby boy.

Shawn looks about fourteen. It's a cliché, I know, but that's because it's true – people look so small on those hospital beds, and the machines dwarf them. I'm so damn grateful they don't have him on a ventilator, though they've already told me it might have to happen if his breathing gets worse.

His left arm has a bandage wrapped all the way round it – that one was a through and through – and there's a gauze pad strapped over his chest. That one caught a rib; snapped it and pushed it close enough into his left lung that they thought it had perforated at one point.

That second one was only an inch from his heart.

One inch more and my baby boy would be lying in a morgue.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to Kimly for FINALLY making me get off my ass (ok, getting _on_ it to use the damn laptop) and write something.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you guys rock.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _= - / _

I've never seen Spencer so still.

He's not twitching, not shouting, not doing stupid psychic impressions, barely even breathing. He's so pale that, were it not for those tiny regular shifts of his chest, and the beeping of his heart monitor, I'd not believe he was alive.

He's still got a damn black eye; hard to believe that was only… what, yesterday? Yeah, yesterday.

The nurse said it'd be a couple of hours till he comes round from the anaesthetic; they'll take him out of the ICU then. Till he's out of there, he's only allowed one visitor for more than five minutes. There's no question that it's going to be Henry, so the rest of us file out quietly. O'Hara runs her fingers along Shawn's arm, where it rests on top of the covers; she avoids the IV line.

Henry tells us to go home, get some rest. It's nearly midnight – I figure we're all going to be seeing dawn, at this rate. No way can any of us sleep after this. Still, we humour him and head off, promising to come back before work tomorrow.

I can't think of anything to say as I look at Shawn's still body – nothing other than a whispered, "sorry," comes from my mouth.

And, oh, am I sorry.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

Carlton and I are waiting outside the ICU. I know, we should have respected Henry's wishes and left, but I can't leave until I know Shawn's going to be all right. I guess Carlton feels guilty, he always gets this look on his face. He feels guilty about too many things.

Sometimes I wish I could just give him a hug and take away all of his worries and just make him _relax_ for once in his life.

Buzz has gone home for now – poor Francine, he rang her earlier and said he'd be late but definitely home. I'd hate to marry a cop. It's bad enough worrying about all my friends, let alone a husband who risks his life every day. Maybe I'll marry an accountant, or a lawyer. Ooh, that'd mean a man with money. Juliet O'Hara, designer suit wearer. Wait, Juliet… Shepherd? Yeah, make him a doctor. A doctor that looks like Patrick Dempsey, that'd be nice.

Where was I?

Hugging Carlton, that was it. Probably not a good idea right now, he's sat down looking like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

Oh, I don't care what he thinks. He needs a hug. Hey, I need one too.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

"O'Hara? What are you doing?"

There are slim arms around my shoulders, and a blonde head pressed into my neck. "Giving you a hug. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I don't know what it looks like, all I can see is your shirt." I can smell it too. It's nice, something flowery. Suits her.

She's still not letting go. Ah, my shoulder's getting soggy.

"O'Hara? Juliet?"

She's definitely crying. Damnit, I don't need this. Not tonight, not ever. Crying women are _not_ my specialty. No, my specialty would be screwing up.

I'm patting her back, and I can feel her shaking as she turns towards me more. If anyone sees this, I'm never going to live it down at the station. Wait, I'm Head Detective, I can just fire them. Or make their lives misery. Either way, I figure I can keep it quiet.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

The same old scene met Susie Evans as she entered the Intensive Care waiting room; a couple in each other's arms, one crying, the other trying to stay strong for her. He looked tired, and Susie couldn't see what the woman looked like, but suspected she would appear the same. His arms were around her and holding her tight; they were close, very close, and she could see him stroking her back.

The paleness of both their faces suggested they hadn't been there long – the ashen shade usually wore off after an hour or so, though the other symptoms of shock would remain for a little longer.

Susie decided not to interrupt – she'd come back in a few minutes and offer coffee, a couple of biscuits, comforting words or even some advice, if she thought it would be received well. Sometimes it was best to keep quiet, but sometimes people just needed to be told how to cope.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

Shawn woke to dim lighting, the sound of snoring, and the smell of antiseptic that his motorcycle accident had forever embedded in his mind as A Bad Thing To Wake Up To.

His eyelids were heavy, and his stomach was roiling with the nausea he associated with general anaesthetics. His chest ached a little, and his arm, though less so.

Despite the low lighting, he could read the clock on the far wall – 3.17. From the darkness, it was three am, not three in the afternoon, so he had to be in the ICU. Nowhere else would he be so turned around as to be waking up at this time. _Staying_ up till three, sure, but _waking_ up? Never.

Shawn closed his eyes again, and when he awoke a young nurse was checking the lines that lead into his right arm. He licked his lips, ready to make a smart comment, but nothing came readily to his anaesthesia-clouded mind.

She noticed the movement, however, and smiled at him. "Hello, Shawn." She pointed out of the room and said, "I'm going to get some ice chips. Your dad told us the anaesthetics make you feel ill, they should help."

Mute, Shawn nodded. Of course his father would have passed that on.

Moments later – though it may have been several minutes, time seemed to be moving in peculiar jumps – she returned, and held a spoon to his lips.

The ice chips chilled his throat and calmed his stomach, and he closed his eyes in relief.

"Ok, Shawn, I'm Sarah, I'm a nurse. You're in hospital – you were shot. Do you remember that?"

Stupid question, but she wasn't to know that. "Yeah, I remember." His voice was weak, and he could feel his lungs protesting the extra effort. That was probably a bad sign, but at least he was still using them.

"Good." Their voices were low; Henry slept in his chair, the snores now subdued. "You got a bullet in your chest, and one in your arm. We're keeping you on morphine, you'll stay on it for a few days. Don't try and sit up, however well you feel. In a couple of hours we'll have you moved somewhere more comfortable, but for now just lie back and try and get some more sleep."

Shawn nodded mutely. He could feel the sedatives still working, dragging him back to sleep, and he didn't have the strength to argue with them.

"Sleep well, Mr Spencer." The words took on strange forms in his mind, tumbling and spinning in bright colours as the anaesthetics established their side effects.

= - / _ = - / _= - / _= - /

The nurse has just come out of Spencer's room. She's not in a hurry; she went in with ice chips a few minutes ago, and she's got a hint of a smile, though most people wouldn't see it. I remove O'Hara's head from my shoulder – which is still slightly damp, thanks to her – and lay her down on the seats so I can intercept the woman.

She smiles at me, pre-empting my questions. "He was awake, coherent and is up to his eyeballs in painkillers, at least for now, but he's just fallen asleep again. Some time after six we'll be moving him to a private room. He should be out of danger now."

I feel myself sag once again, the tiredness and worry taking its toll on me. "Ok. Thank you." I let her go on her way.

"O'Hara? Wake up." She's sweet when she's sleeping. She bats my hand away, muttering, but when I shake her shoulder she's immediately awake.

"Lassiter? What's wrong, is it Shawn?" Then she seems to read something in my face, because she's all smiles and hugs.

Somehow, I manage to squeeze out, "He's awake." She pushes me to arm's length for a second, then hugs me again, then lets me go.

"Thank God."

I blink my eyes, just as she's doing – they're heavy with lack of sleep, and I'm pretty sure I'm too tired to drive without some rookie pulling me over and breathalysing me.

Let him try. I'm going home, and I'm going to bed, and Shawn Spencer is going to continue to make my life a living hell. A hell where the smell of pineapples makes me smile; where I look forwards just a little to some manic interrupting my workday; where I'll have to apologise repeatedly for hitting someone who truly, genuinely deserved it (even though he didn't, really); where 'psychic visions' have become the norm, and where Shawn Spencer, fake psychic extraordinaire, is counted among my closest friends.

Maybe hell isn't so bad after all.


End file.
